“Excellent job, Lieutenant,” the voice at headquarters said. “We will send a search party out for the wreckage. I am sure that you and your unit will receive a commendation for your actions.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ortiz said, and the line went dead. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he extracted a cigarette and a lighter. The thrilling rush of the nicotine in his lungs could not compare to the thrilling rush of the kill in his veins.
SH-60B Seahawk (“Tomahawk 2”)
Over Bogor, Indonesia
7:51 p.m.
Members of the SEAL team were falling all over one another, trying desperately to gain their balance as the Seahawk swirled and bumped through the night air. Strong arms pulled Diane close. She looked and saw Zack wrapping himself protectively around her.
They would die together.
Here.
“Jesus, help us.”
Mayday! Mayday!” The copilot was shouting, as the pilot, Lieutenant Cameron, struggled with the stick to keep the aircraft from spinning totally out of control.
“Tomahawk 2. Tomahawk 3. We’ve got you in our sights.”
“Tomahawk 3. We’re losing it. Declaring an emergency.”
“Reagan Control. Tomahawk 3. Tomahawk 2 has been hit. Surface-to-air missile strike. Tomahawk 2 has declared an emergency.”
“Tomahawk 3. Reagan Control. Please report coordinates.”
“Reagan Control. Roger that. Stand by…”
All the radio traffic was lost on Lieutenant Cameron, who was hanging in the cockpit seat by his safety harness. He pulled hard on the stick as the aircraft yawed violently. They had already dropped over five hundred feet. In a few seconds, they would reach the point of no return.
“Lord, help us,” Cameron said instinctively, as he yanked on the cyclic stick once again.
A second later, the aircraft began to stabilize. And a moment later, the horizon was horizontal again. His eyes fell on the fuel gauge.
“Tomahawk 3. Tomahawk 2. We’re losing fuel fast. Maybe ninety seconds left. I’m going to climb for a better altitude to initiate emergency autorotation.”
“Tomahawk 2. We’ll stick with you till you’re down.”
“That’s a negative.” Lieutenant Cameron looked over his shoulder and saw Captain Noble, who had made his way to the cockpit from the bay area. “Tell him to get the heck out of Dodge,” Captain Noble said. “Now. Fly straight to the carrier.”
“Aye, Captain,” Cameron said. “Tomahawk 3. Your orders are to proceed directly to destination. Don’t wait here. We’ll be fine.”
“Roger that,” the pilot from Tomahawk 3 said. “Good luck and Godspeed.”
“Captain, you may want to warn your men. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride down. Strap in real tight.”
“Will do.”
Diane was exhaling, holding Zack’s hand, and silently thanking Jesus. “I thought we were dead. But I feel us climbing,” she said to Zack. His face, half chiseled and half boyish, flashed the most confident smile. With his salt-and-pepper hair, his green eyes, and that devilish grin that seem to accentuate the dimple in his chin, he was strikingly handsome even with shoe polish on his face.
“That’s gotta be a good sign,” he said, warmly squeezing her hand.
Just then, Captain Noble, who had gone to the cockpit to talk to the pilot, stepped back into the cargo bay.
“Listen up.” The captain spoke with an urgent authority in his voice. “We’re losing fuel fast. The pilot’s gonna initiate an autorotation. Strap in tight and hang on. We’ve got maybe thirty seconds before we start dropping like a rock.”
Mumbling from the SEAL team.
“When we hit the ground, move out of the chopper immediately because of the danger of fire. That’s not likely in this case, because we’re using all our fuel. But still, I want everyone out on the double. Am I clear about that?”
“Aye, Captain…Yes, sir…”
“Zack, what’s that mean?” Diane looked at him questioningly.
“He’s going to cut the power to the engine and try to glide the helicopter down to an emergency landing.”
“How can you glide a helicopter down?” Fear gripped her stomach, turning it into a hard knot. “It doesn’t have wings.”
“They cut the power and it drops like a rock. Then the wind catches the rotors, they start turning in the air, which in theory slows the fall. It falls through a cushion of air like a whirlybird.” He squeezed her hand again. “That’s the theory anyway.” He gave her another smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve been up with my chopper-flying buddies over Camp Pendleton when they tried to scare me with an autorotation. Piece of cake.”
“Did you ever make it all the way down?”
“Nah. They always reengaged the engine first. I think they were just trying to get me to throw up.” He snickered. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”
But despite Zack’s amazing ability to laugh in the face of danger, somehow Diane didn’t feel that they would be fine. How much more was God going to take her through?
Was this it? Here and now? Is this how, finally, her life would end? Her mind raced at lightning speed with thoughts of others who had died in plane crashes. What of the brave souls on Flight 93 over Pennsylvania? What were they thinking on that fateful Tuesday morning in September when they brought their plane down to save the US Capitol? What went through their minds?
She thought of her mother, who passed away so long ago that she could barely remember…and her father, a three-star admiral who even on his deathbed had wanted her to serve. Her service in the navy was initially a commitment to him, and in his honor.
But now? Would she go down giving her life for her country? The thought of it would please him, but only if they could be reunited soon. Was she ready?
She looked again over at Zack. His face showed a supreme confidence that was not even being displayed by the members of the brave SEAL team around them.
And she knew why. It was the Spirit that lived within Zack that gave him that unflappable confidence. Whether in a courtroom with millions watching on international television, or whether on a helicopter being shot out of the sky, he was always the same. It was a spirit of fearlessness that came from God.
Diane decided that she was not ready to go.
Not yet.
There was too much to live for.
It was time to pray.
Again.
Econo Lodge
Fifteen miles south of Philadelphia
8:52 a.m.
Mohammed was sprawled spread-eagle on the queen-sized bed, and had just begun to doze when his chirping cell phone sent him into a string of curse words. Only one person knew the cell number, which had been especially set up for this mission.
“Yah.”
“Execute mission. Now.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Change of circumstances. Execute now.”
Mohammed sat up on the side of the bed. “Understood. I’m on my way.”
SH-60B Seahawk (“Tomahawk 2”)
Over Bogor, Indonesia
7:53 p.m.
He had practiced the maneuver dozens of times. Most of his practice had come over the friendly confines of the giant marine base at Camp Pendleton, in Southern California.
The theory was to disengage the main rotors of the helicopter, and then, after an initial drop, much like falling on the steepest dip of a mammoth roller coaster, air would whip into the chopper’s rotors and guide it safely to the ground. That was the theory anyway.
But this was reality. Lieutenant Bill Cameron was now piloting his aircraft in a foreign country, under combat conditions, at night, after his aircraft had taken at least an indirect hit from what was probably a stinger missile, and having to force a landing in terrain that he was wholly unfamiliar with.
Because of the fuel leakage, he would lose power in just a matter of seconds.
This was no drill.
Quickly, his mind went through the mental procedure check. As he continued his last-second climb, which would give him more room to maneuver on the way down, he repeated the verbal procedure that he had drilled into his mind hundreds of times.